


19. Sex pollen/Fuck or die

by Jensee, Unicorn (Jensee)



Series: Kinktober 2019 [16]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jonathan Sims, Body Horror, Bondage, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Gags, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Oviposition, The Web forces Martin to noncon Jonathan Sims, Unrequited Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Web Martin Blackwood, nobody is okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 20:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21105386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jensee/pseuds/Jensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jensee/pseuds/Unicorn
Summary: Jon has been suspicious of his colleagues since the attack of Jane Prentiss. Even of sweet, gentle Martin Blackwood.Maybe he wasn't suspicious enough.





	19. Sex pollen/Fuck or die

**Author's Note:**

> So I guess writing oviposition once means I'm doomed to write it forever.
> 
> This one... Is pretty bad. Mind the tags please and take care of yourself <3  
(also tell me if you think anything's missing from them) 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Jon has not been the most trusting of men lately. Which is why he’s barely surprised when Martin suddenly starts reaching towards him with disturbingly long fingers.

“Martin. What are you doing?” he says, feeling behind himself to find something, anything to clobber the other man with. He doesn’t want to hurt Martin, not really, but he will if he has to.

He doesn’t want to die, either.

“I don’t know,” Martin says, and he sounds terrified. That’s enough for Jon to look at him more closely. There’s something on his face, on his arms. Dark, thick, black hair. And while Jon has not paid that close of an attention towards Martin’s appearance, they have been working together more than long enough for him to know that that much hair is not natural on the man.

“Martin” he tries to work a warning into his voice but his back hits the shelves and he still has nothing to defend himself with. “Stop it.”

“I can’t!” As he says it, his hand clamps around Jon’s wrist and pin him to the shelf behind him. This is a grip much stronger that what Jon would expect from Martin, and the skin against his feels hairy and rough. “She- I don’t know!”

“Martin.” Another hand comes to keep him pinned, and he feels like a fly waiting to be devouring. “Who is she?”

“I don’t- she wants you,” There’s a hand tugging at Jon’s shirt, and he’s pretty sure it’s one too much, “She wants me to claim you.”

Jon doesn’t get to ask again because then Martin is kissing him.

Well. Calling it a kiss may be too generous. Martin’s mouth is too wide, wider than Jon would think possible, and there are pinpricks menacing to get sharper on his chin. The tongue invading his mouth is also too long, too wide, almost gagging him, and he can feel too many hands on his torso, skittering with sharp claws; catching on his shirt and tearing little holes in it, until Jon hears a ripping sound and feels the torn fabric slide down his chest with an unsuitable gentleness.

The hands on him are too numerous to count, leaving trails of fire on Jon’s skin, adding slashes to the badly healed scars of worms trying to burrow themselves into his body. With one particularly vicious nick to his hip, he has the fleeting thought that maybe the creature that Martin has become wants to burrow in him as well, wants to crawl under his skin and eat him alive, until he’s some kind of creature with no more control over himself. A mindless, puppet-like monster.

He tries to scream, but he chokes on the fangs invading his mouth. He tries to kick Martin off him, but soon his legs are as immobilized as his arms, and he start to feel cuts accumulating on his hips and lower, burning where his flesh is coming in contact with air, the pants taking their turn in falling apart.

“Jon… I’m sorry, Jon…”

Martin is now longer kissing him. His assistant is much taller than he’s supposed to be, his face barely recognizable with the way it seems to be swallowed by a ring of thick, rough black hair. The eyes that Jon recognizes are on him, crying and pleading for forgiveness. The rest of them, six, monstrous and entirely black, seem to be cataloguing every other part of Jon’s body.

He tries to say something. Maybe try to reassure Martin, tell him it isn’t his fault - isn’t it, really? - or try and order him to stop this this instant, to release him and stop whatever practical joke he thinks he’s doing. But even Jon has a hard time thinking anyone -Martin least of all- could pull this kind of joke.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because as soon as he tries to speak, he realizes there’s something in his mouth. Something white, and sticky, and much too resistant for Jon to simply force his mouth open in spite of it.

He’s starting to panic, he realizes, as he hears the forceful breaths coming from himself; as he hears his own heartbeat loudly pumping in his ears. He’s starting to panic, and Martin is trying to say something he cannot hear. The face of his assistant is disappearing, shadows after shadows passing over his face, making it look colder, more distant with each veil falling over his eyes. Jon wishes he’d spent more time looking at those eyes, now that they stare at him like one would a prey.

He tries to calm down, tries to assess the situation, but his arms and legs are tied to the shelves with the same matters clogging his mouth. He doesn’t want to believe this is happening, doesn’t want to admit he won’t get out of this one. He remembers worms forcing a door and thinking he would die, and he remembers that moment that told him, this time, nothing would be alright, nothing would work out.

No one would live happily ever after. Or at all.

He thought he’d squashed that idea that he would be fine, that he _could_ be fine, but there, pinned to the wall like a literal fly on a web, he felt that same sinking feeling, that same dread wash over him.

He wouldn’t be escaping this.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” says Martin again, but his voice is garbled by the mandibules in his mouth, and his eyes are unfocused and grey. It makes Jon want to cry more than the prospect of dying does.

_Leave him alone_.

Martin tilts his head as if he heard the thought, a vacant smile on his distorted face, but he doesn’t respond. He steps closer and Jon wants to close his eyes, to banish the monstrous sight of the man he used to know.

He can’t.

He can’t leave himself bare to the monster. He needs to know. He _needs_ to. Even if that knowledge is what ends up sending him over the edge.

“I’ve wanted you for so long...” sighs Martin in his ear.

Jon isn't sure his mouth is moving.

“She wants you too”

Jon wants to struggle, to fight the rough hands pulling his legs wider apart, but he feels himself complying instead, letting himself be manhandled without any kind of fight.

“She said I could have you.” Martin murmurs plaintively, and Jon wants to cry out when he feels something scraping against his entrance, the shape forcing his walls to open. There’s little moisture and he can feel the member shape against the fragile skin of his inner walls as it painfully penetrates him. It's not what he’d imagine a dick to feel like. It’s too big, too long, and too rugged, like old, damaged leather, and it hurts as it pushes relentlessly deeper into Jon. It pushes and it's not only filling his asshole anymore, it's filling his whole body, making his stomach bend out of shape, bulging outward obscenely, making him feel every inches of it. It's as if something has been rubbing his intestines with a cheese grater, but Jon feels himself rocking into it anyway; can feel his cock filling with blood and standing to attention, and this is maybe the worst of it. He recognizes the pain and the hurt, the distress, but he can feel alongside it an alien part of him that can only feel pleasure at the intrusion, that's delirious with a kind of twisted, possessive joy Jon hasn't ever felt before.

Or maybe he has. Maybe _that_ is the scary part.

The monstrous member works deeper into him and Jon wants to cry at the pain and Jon wants to moan at the pleasure. Martin's face is emotionless as he feels him quicken and stutter inside of his tortured channel. It feels good, too good for the continuous pain and disgust he feels, and Jon feels his pleasure rising and rising, until he's suffocating with it, until Martin bucks savagely inside of him on every thrust and the pain becomes too much.

He comes, feeling light-headed.

Martin lets out a discordant-sounding moan and kisses him again, over the mess of saliva and gelatinous restraint that is clogging his mouth. Jon feels him come in him, something wet, cold and heavy slowly spilling in him, far deeper that it has any right to be. Maybe too much of this will kill him. Maybe there's still some way to escape this. But Jon's eyes are still open, and he can see himself, trapped and bloated with the gelatinous fluid, forever marked by the monster shuddering his release waves after waves in him.

There's no escaping this.

"I'm sorry," says Martin in the crook of his neck, "I'm sorry, Jon"

He can feel tears falling on his shoulder, freezing drops on his heated skin. 

"You feel so good." whispers Martin desperately, hips rolling into Jon's. 

He sounds like himself again, and this is maybe the most terrifying of it all.

Martin moans pitifully and Jon can feel his already monstrous cock change inside of him, a bulbous, protubating growth pushing against his entrance and traveling up inside of him, until he feels the form push out of Martin's member, and land directly into his body like a grotesque, oversized pearl.

Martin sighs, and it sounds contented, happy. His hips roll continuously with the mouvements of other shapes and Jon cannot utter the whimper of horror he wants to make as he filled with eggs.

He can feel each and everyone of them in excruciating details. He doesn't count them, but he doesn't need to. He can visualize them one by one, already alive with pale, sluggish spiders, eager to hatch and crawl inside his body. Eager to change him into a mere host, a fleshy tower for the parasites to burrow and deploy into.

There is no respite to Jon's knowledge, no ignorant bliss to fall in, and all the while, Martin sighs and shudders with this horrifying, all too natural pleasure. He mumbles tearful apologies with every bucks of his hips, every shudders of pleasure, but what has been done cannot be undone.

Jon's eyes won't ever close on that memory again.

It ends at some point. The binding over him starts to loosen and dissolves and the member inside of him starts to feel decidedly more fleshy, more human, until all that's left are two men, Martin rutting into Jon softly, coming inside of him with a groan, and Jon finally able to close his eyes and try to block out Martin's excuses.

The white mass in his mouth is the last to go, falling to the ground with a wet sound and slowly dissipating like a bad dream. 

Jon can still feel the eggs shifting inside of him.

Martin dissolves into tears when he pulls out, apologizing over and over, voice cracking and breaking into hiccups and sobs. 

Jon holds him, his mind blank except for the weight in his core.

He can feel the eggs shifting inside of him.

He can see them, with eyes that will never close.


End file.
